Large Tracts of Land
I have always had large tracks of land. I inherited them from my mother. Unfortunately, the rest of my body came from my father. The result was a stocky body, often mistaken for being fat, capped by large boobs.
Training bras were not a thing for me. My first bra fettered me when I was only 9. It was a C cup. Third grade sucked: Hey, Tittietta!
It wasn't until 6th grade that I discovered bras served as pockets. Spending money, a pen, my school ID. The more those things grew, the more that bra held.
Stretchy bandages normally normally used on my ankles for preventing sprains became my best friends. I'd wrap those bastards tightly around my torso so I could run or do anything in PE class. By then, the boobs were DD. I was in middle school.
High school ushered in DDD. I wore the baggiest clothes I could find. Bras were painful. The weight on my shoulders became unbearable. I used the elastic wraps for PE and I still couldn't run without the tissue weight causing pain with each step. And my PE teacher would scream at me because, if I just worked out, I wouldn't be a fat troll. I'd be able to do push-ups that reached the ground, and jumping jacks, and sit ups.
Yeah, this was the 80s. Teachers could still say this shit to kids.
I did work out, mostly calisthenics, at home, after wrapping the living hell out of my tits over a tight sports bra. I did stretches. I worked hard at pushups but I really could never get all the way down because those breasts hung low like cow udders despite being wrapped. I did pull-ups on my old swing set. And, unlike most girls, I had 20 lbs of weight added because of tits.
At school, the PE teacher banished me to the quad outside the changing rooms and showers. I sat with the other "fat kids". This also meant that we were in the direct path of the coolest kids on campus: cheerleaders and football players.
Cheerleaders were viscous. These bitches sneered at us with mouthfuls of teeth that I wanted to break. The football players were worse. It's like they loved to top the cheerleaders' insults. (Thinking back on my experiences with bullies, I see why some kids crack and bring guns to school.)
"Hey! Tittietta! You wanna try out for linebacker next year? You're fat enough," Vince was our quarterback.
"She won't run unless you put cupcakes in the end zone." I forgot this cheerleader's name.
"She can't lift a football," Vince laughed. Even after all these years, I remember just how ugly his laugh was.
I lost my shit. "I can out-press you any day. I can kick your ass any time I want." I think I also called him a pussy.
And then came the booming voice of one of the football coaches. I forget what he said. I remember shrinking back. PE teachers have always hated me. But Vince told him I had challenged him to a weight lifting competition.
I hadn't. I actually meant the weight bench with weights added to the bar after every successful lift.
The fat kids had abandoned me. I was swept inside the weight room (a place no girl belonged in) and over to the mat used for dead lifts.
Fun fact: the Olympic Committee banished weightlifting in 2016. It will return in 2024. In the 1980s, it was still going strong. My dad and I loved watching gymnastics, boxing, and weightlifting. He did both in his younger years. I sucked at back flips, but I did really well with boxing - my grandfather was a professional boxer in NYC - so my dad taught me how to do that and strength train. And he set up a small area of our garage, behind all the clutter so my mother wouldn't see it, and he taught me both the barbell snatch and the barbell clean and jerk. I had my own belt, even. But I couldn't do any weightlifting without him home because I should always have a spotter.
I remember asking for a belt. I remember Vince going first. I remember thinking the barbell seemed too light. And I remember doing a barbell snatch followed by silence. Another coach came in and insisted on adding 20 more pounds to the barbell before chewing on the football coach for not having a spotter for me. I remember Vince struggling and dropping the mess because he couldn't get it all the way up. And I remember thinking the barbell looked just right, and that second coach was spotting me...so I pulled off a clean and jerk. All the stuff in between is hazy. I let go of the bar, felt like I was going to pass out, so I sat on a bench next to the mat like nothing was amiss.
One absolutely pristine memory has always clung to my day in that weight room:
"Fuck you!" said the second coach. He was pointing at the football coach and probably riding the high caused by a girl that outperformed a precious football player.
Football coach and quarterback left. Some of the players remained and congratulated me.
That second coach managed the weightlifting team. I was the first girl to be on it.
Marching band is not a sport, though we lettered in it. I never thought I'd be a real athlete. Yet I found a place where I belonged. The ultimate tomboy had found some brothers. I loved it.
It took a while to coax me out of my shell, however. I was still painfully shy. It took one of the guys chastising me, "You got nice tits", for me to realize that there's nothing wrong with having big tits in high school. The following Monday, I showed up in my black jeans and combat boots, but I had found a nice shirt with half sleeves to wear. Nothing baggy. I actually had a flat tummy that was hidden during my effort to hide my breasts.
I maintained my chiseled look until I was 17 and living in Colorado. That was the year a drunk driver slammed into us on our way to Denver. It was head-on. He killed my best friend; she was the driver. I held her hand as she died. And the impact damaged my shoulders, hands, and pelvis.
Although I could still work out my legs, there wasn't any way for me to continue working out my arms. I would never be able to squat and dead lift after that. Fat crept in. By time I met my future husband, my body had turned into lard.
He loved me despite it.
I haven't thought about these school memories for a long while. You see, my bra was more than a bra in middle and high school.
I did store stuff in it. Small calculator, pens, pencils, lip balm, a few dollar bills. I kept going that until I was 19. By then, I was rocking an F cup (aka DDD) and I had gone back to my baggy clothes days.
I'm 51. I still have the F cup. I don't wear a bra often. I wanted these melons removed long before my spine paid the price.
Yet, these tits are still useful. Yesterday, I found my hands full. Water bottle, massive coffee cup, power-ade, Ensure, phone. My pajamas don't have pockets. So the phone went under my massive left breast and the Ensrure went under the right. I got all the way upstairs, though the Ensure had come loose and landed on my toe. Ouch, man.
I arranged all the fluids on the desk and changed out of my pajamas. An hour after that, I noticed my phone wasn't nearby. I looked all over the top floor. I searched all downstairs and even the back yard. Nada. Confused as hell, I dialed my number to locate my phone.
The ringtone was very muffled but it was right there. RIGHT THERE! I moved papers covering the desk to see if the phone was mixed in with them. And just as that fourth ring died, I realize that damn phone is under my breast. The weight of that boob was heavily enough to keep in firmly in place while I changed clothing.